The easy capitulation caught me completely off guard. "What?"
"You heard me." His expression remained carefully neutral. "If you believe leaving is the right choice for you, I accept that decision."
"Just like that?" Irrational disappointment surged through me. "You're not going to try to convince me to stay?"
"Would it work?" A hint of weariness colored his tone. "Or would it simply reinforce your perception that I'm trying to control you?"
I had no answer—I could only stare at him in confusion as he turned my expectations upside down.
"I won't manipulate you, Savannah. Won't use your feelings against you. Won't make this more difficult than it already is." He moved toward the door, each step deliberate. "If distance is what you need, I'll respect that choice."
"Lucas—" His name emerged as barely more than a whisper.
He paused, hand on the doorknob. "Yes?"
A thousand words hovered on my tongue—explanations, justifications, pleas I had no right to make. In the end, I said nothing.
"Goodbye, Savannah." He opened the door, glanced back once with an expression I couldn't decipher.
"I wish you every success in New York."
And then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click that sounded unnaturally final in the silence of my apartment.
I stood frozen, waiting for the relief to wash over me. The emotional liberation that should accompany reclaimed independence, restored control, and renewed clarity of purpose.
It didn't come.
Instead, a hollow emptiness expanded beneath my ribs, a physical ache that made it difficult to breathe. I sank onto the couch, wrapping my arms around myself as if I could physically hold the pieces together.
This was the right decision.
The sensible choice.
The path that protected everything I'd worked for.
So why did it feel like amputation without anesthesia?
I reached for my phone, thumb hovering over Lucas's number. One call could undo it all, could bring him back, could restore the connection I'd just deliberately severed.
Instead, I texted Zoe:
It's done. Bring the ice cream.
She arrived forty minutes later, bearing not just premium ice cream but two bottles of expensive merlot and a collection of truly terrible romantic comedies—the kind where everything works out in the end despite impossible odds.
"You look like hell," she observed, kicking off her shoes and heading straight for the kitchen to retrieve wine glasses.
"Thanks. It's my new aesthetic." I accepted the generously poured glass she handed me. "Devastation chic."
"How did he take it?" She settled beside me on the couch, propping her feet on my coffee table with the casual intimacy of a decade-long friendship.
"That's the worst part." I took a long swallow of wine, welcoming the burn. "He just... accepted it. Wished me well in New York and walked away."
"He what?" Genuine surprise colored her voice.
"Mr. Control Freak just let you go?"
"He said he wouldn't manipulate me or make it more difficult than it already was." The memory of his calm acceptance made my chest tighten painfully. "Said he respected my choice."
